But he had not been able to think of any new line. It was the one he had used before. He made it a little more menacing, that was all.
"I'm only flesh and blood—," he said quickly, his hands ever so slightly clenching and unclenching and his throat apparently swallowing something.
Her heart was beating quickly enough now.—"But—but—," she stammered,—"if you only mean my coming here—I've been here lots of times before——"
He wasted few words on that.
"Not since——," he rapped out. He was surveying her sternly now.
"But—but—," she faltered again, "—it's only me, Edgar—I am connected with the paper, you know—that is to say my husband is——"
"That's true," he groaned.
"And—and—I should have come before—I've been intending to come—but I've been so busy——"
But that also he brushed aside for the little it was worth. "Must you compromise yourself like this?" he demanded. "Don't you see? I'm not made of wood, and I suppose your eyes are open too. Prang may be here at any moment. He'll see that notice on the door, and wait ... and then he'll see you go out. You oughtn't to have come," he continued gloomily. "Why did you, Amory?"
Once more she quailed before the blue mica of his eye. Her words came now a bit at a time. The victory was his.